Neither the tall American nor the Chinese exited, but the maintenance man saw something else: He was not the only one observing the hotel. Two cigarettes glowed and faded inside a black car, parked so it blocked the narrow sidewalk across from the hotel’s revolving doors. The Public Security Bureau — China’s dreaded police and intelligence agency. No one else would be that arrogant.
He studied the vehicle longer. By the time he looked back into the alley, the American and the Chinese were running toward a Volkswagen Jetta parked so that it faced the street. The maintenance man shrank back into the crowd that surged along the sidewalk.
The Jetta’s right wheels were flat against a wall. The Chinese unlocked the car door, while the American surveyed all around as if expecting an attack. They jumped inside, the Jetta pulled into the traffic, and it turned west toward the pedestrian mall, which reached all the way to the French Concession. No vehicles were allowed there.
The maintenance man wasted no time. He gave a piercing whistle. Seconds later, a battered Land Rover pulled up. He dropped his toolbox in back and vaulted into the front beside the driver, who wore a round white cap and had leathery brown skin and round eyes like his.
When the driver spoke in a language that was neither Chinese nor European, the maintenance man responded in the same language and jabbed a thumb at the Jetta, less than a half block ahead in the jammed traffic.
The driver nodded and forced the Land Rover through the congestion.
Abruptly, the Jetta turned left.
Bellowing curses, the driver snaked, bumped, and banged the Land Rover to the left and followed the Jetta, which turned west again on Jiujiang Lu. And quickly north once more, back toward Nanjing Dong Lu.
Swearing again, the Land Rover driver tried to follow but was momentarily blocked. He burst his vehicle out to turn into the same street. The maintenance man caught another glimpse of their quarry far ahead — and then the car vanished.
The driver pushed the Land Rover on, stopping just before Nanjing Dong Lu, where an all-but-hidden alley ran off to the south. The maintenance man cursed. The Chinese driver and the American with the military posture must have spotted him. The Jetta had pulled into this alley and by now could be anywhere in the teeming area.
Two hours later, Andy dropped Smith at the second Starbucks and drove off to park. This one was on Fixing Dong Lu, another bustling street, not far from the river in the Nanshi district — Shanghai’s Old Town.
The first Starbucks had been in Lippo Plaza on Huaihai Zhong Lu. That coffee shop had been filled with locals and Westerners alike, and Smith and Andy had seen no connection to the Empress there or when they had walked the streets, reading nameplates on doors and studying the low buildings filled with shops and small stores.
This second Starbucks was less crowded. Only Chinese sat at the tables and ordered coffees to go. Most were well dressed in suits, both Western and Chinese, and appeared to be rushing back to desk jobs.
Smith carried his second double latte of the day to a table at the front window. This was a business district, which accounted for the lack of Westerners. The buildings were a mixture of four-, five-, and six-story structures dating back to the late colonial era as well as taller modern buildings and a few shiny glass-and-steel high-rises. One of the newest was directly across the street. Smith focused on a vertical row of brass plaques beside the entrance doors.
Andy joined him. “I’ll get me a mocha, and we can start walking. Are you buying?”
Smith handed him money. When the interpreter-chauffeur returned, Smith stood up. “We’ll try that new building across the street first.”
Carrying their Styrofoam cups, they dodged among the bicycles, cars, and buses to cross with the skill that came from maneuvering through Manhattan’s traffic. Smith headed to the brass nameplates at the entry.
Most were in Chinese characters, some transliterated into Pinyin.
Andy translated for Smith.
“Hold it!” Smith said at the tenth plaque. “Read that again.”
“Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade and Shipping.” Andy pontificated: “A dragon’s the symbol of heaven in China.”
“Okay.”
“And, therefore, of the emperor.”
“The emperor’s been dead a long time, but thanks. Finish the list.”
As it turned out, Flying Dragon was the only shipping company. As they drank their coffee, they hurried through the directories of the other office buildings on the block. They found four more companies that could have ties to global transportation. Then they found a street vendor who sold jianing, an egg and green-onion omelette folded over chili sauce.
This time, Andy bought.
As soon as they had finished their omelettes, Smith was on the move again. “Time to check the last Starbucks.”
It proved to be in a shopping center in the new business development zone around Hongqiao Airport on Hongqiao Lu. There were no companies connected to shipping nearby, and Smith told Andy to drive back to the hotel.
“Okay, we’ve got five possibilities,” Smith said, all close enough to the second Starbucks for an informant to use it as a place to pass his information on to Mondragon. How good are you on a computer?”
“How good was Grant at winning battles?”
“Access the five companies on the Internet, and look for the name Zhao Yanji among their staff.”
“Consider it done.” They drove on. As they neared the Bund, Jon said, “Is there another way into the Peace Hotel besides the front and employees’ entrances?”
“Yeah. Around the corner on an intersecting street.”
“Good.
Take me there.” As Andy drove through a dizzying tangle of thoroughfares and alleys, Smith looked him up and down. “You’re almost my height. Your pants should be long enough, and that leather jacket of yours is big enough for a buffalo. With your Mao cap, I’ll pass for Shanghainese, unless someone gets too close to my face. You’ll be a scarecrow in my suit, but you don’t have to wear the jacket.”
“Thanks. I think.” As they approached the hotel, Smith told Andy where to park. He struggled out of his clothes in the small car. Andy turned off the motor and did the same. The leather jacket was fine on Smith. The trousers were an inch short, but they would do. He pulled the Mao cap down almost to his eyes and stepped out of the Jetta. He leaned down to the open window. “Do that research, have an early dinner, and pick me up here in two hours.”
Andy brightened. “That’s too soon for shows or club hopping. What’s our gig?”
“You don’t have a gig. You’re waiting in the car. I’m going to do a bit of breaking and entering. How much’ll depend on what you find out.”
“I can help on the b and e, too. I’m a cat.”
“Next time.” Andy frowned, disappointed. “I’m not the patient sort.”
“Work on it.” Smith liked the interpreter. He grinned and walked off. The noise was clamorous, the streets as always mobbed. He saw no one tailing, but he took no chances. Blending into the surge of Shanghainese, he let the throngs carry him toward the Bund. Only when he reached the doors to the hotel did he push his way free and stride inside. At dusk two hours later, purple light enveloped Shanghai, and a sense of Asia’s lush beauty softened the hard-edged skyline. Andy An paused his car to let Smith off a block from the building that housed Flying Dragon Enterprises, International Trade & Shipping. Since most of the night’s action had already headed off to Old Town, the French Concession, and Huangpu, the street was very different now, half deserted.
Andy’s research had made the target definite: Zhao Yanji was the treasurer of Flying Dragon, which was housed in the high-rise directly across the street from the second Starbucks they had visited that day.
It made sense to Smith. A clandestine seller of highly sensitive material who conducted sales during working hours would want to be away from his or her job as short a time as possible and on a believable errand, such as getting coffee at a nearby Starbucks. If Zhao Yanji was that person, he had a perfect outlet at the obviously popular Starbucks.
If all went well, Smith would be back in plenty of time for dinner at nine o’clock with Dr. Liang and his fellow
